


How to Save a Life

by Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace



Series: Living with My Mistakes [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Angst, Doctor!patrick, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I don't even know how to tag this, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of surgery, but this is just huge ball of Angst I'm warning you right now, im not gonna lie, somewhat of a happy ending, this can be triggering, this is going to hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8675698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace/pseuds/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace
Summary: All Patrick knew it that he fucked up, his mind replaying the hurt in Pete’s eyes, warm whiskey hardening to cold amber, shoulders falling as “I hate you” fell from Patrick's lips. Pete didn’t deserve that, and Patrick knows he needs to make it right, somehow. But in the meantime, he’s responding to a call from the ER and there’s no time for thinking, just time to do, to save someone’s life. It’s supposed to be routine for Patrick, something he does on a daily basis…But this feels different. This call…This call feels wrong. And Patrick can’t understand why.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is partially beta'd by the beautiful [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade), as she looked over the first part, but I wanted to keep the second part a surprise for her...
> 
> That being said, all mistakes are mine.

“Are you okay?”

Patrick tensed as the question reached his ears, his back to Pete. Casually swiping the incoming text away, he simply looked over his shoulder at the dark- haired man standing in the doorway of their kitchen.

“Of course I’m okay,” Patrick stated, the words sounding too harsh, even to his own ears. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He sounded matter-of-fact, but it was laced with annoyance and he didn’t know why he was being so defensive with Pete, of all people. Maybe it was because he was about to start a 36 hour shift at the hospital, and he just wasn’t up to it today…or maybe it was because he had just gotten a text from his new co-worker before Pete had spoken up. _“Come over to my place after your shift, we can have some drinks…and chill ;)”_ The text in and of itself was flirty, and Patrick knew that the person who sent it had other definition for _chill_ ….

“ _And you know you want to say yes_ ,” the sinister voice in his head hissed teasingly, mocking him.

‘ _No…we’re just co-workers…he knows I’m in a relationship_ ’ Patrick tries vainly to reason with himself.

‘ _Maybe…but you didn’t stop him from kissing you back in the locker room…_ ’

Dr. Rhodes was a new doctor who was lending a helping hand to the Trinity Memorial Hospital, where Patrick was one of the attending Trauma Surgeons. He was friendly, and easy to talk too, but over the last two months, Patrick’s noticed that Rhodes been acting a little more forward—asking him to lunch, bringing him coffee, subtle touches, and just recently, kissed in the locker room even after Patrick had mentioned several times that he was in a relationship with Pete.

_“You didn’t push him away…you didn’t say no…”_

_It was just a kiss…it didn’t mean anything…I didn’t kiss back…_ But it felt like a dirty little secret, and technically it was.

“Look, Patrick,” his thoughts are cut short as his attention was drawn to Pete, who was running a hand through his dark hair. “It’s just…I’m worried about you,” the last part is soft, laced with emotion, and that makes Patrick feel even more guilty, even more defensive.

“Worried about _what_?” Patrick asked incredulously, his own defenses up as if his brain was attempting to guard himself and his secret.

“You’ve been overworking yourself like crazy, babe!” Pete continued, clearly exasperated at Patrick’s lack of understanding. “You’ve been working 36 hours shifts!  You’ve been kinda irritable and stressed out…I really think you need a break before you burn out.”

 _“You only stay longer to hang out with Rhodes…”_ The voice taunted him.

 _‘Shut up…’_ He fired back weakly.

“Pete,” Patrick starts, getting uncharacteristically annoyed, “we’re short staffed.” he began the familiar lie, “I’m sorry you can’t get it through that thick skull of yours that means we all have to pick up the slack…”

“I get that, I’m just don’t want you to overdo it! You haven’t taken time off in four months, you’ve been coming home late, I hardly get to see you-“

“Well, I’m fucking sorry my life doesn’t revolve around you!” Patrick hisses out. “Quit being a selfish prick.”

Pete jerks back, confused. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? Out of everything I just said, you pick one part and want to tell me I’m being selfish?”

“That’s what it sounds like,” Patrick returns. “Just because I have an _actual job_ doesn’t mean I need to drop everything just for you!” That hit the mark, he could tell the words hurt when Pete’s eyes became slitted, pissed. He knew it was a low jab at Pete’s on- and- off career as an author. Pete had a few books out that contributed to their comfortable living, but nothing that would set them for life, even with Patrick’s pay. But he had never said anything out loud, he could tell hearing him vocalize his thoughts about Pete's career choice was a stab in the chest, despite how supportive he'd always been. But he wasn’t thinking, the venom and the insistent nagging of his conscience egging him on, and he spat out words like arrows aimed to hurt, trying to keep Pete from getting any closer. From finding his secret.

“You know, for someone so _fucking smart_ , you’re acting really stupid!” Pete shot back, his shoulders tensing. “You can’t even see the big picture in front of you! I’m worried about you because _I care about you_ , but if you want to turn this into selfishness then you’re the one acting selfish because you’re only choosing to hear and believe what _you want_. _You need to grow up_ , Patrick, and open your goddamn eyes and ears, stop being an _asshole_ and pay attention to what I’m saying!”

Patrick felt the words sting deep, and his conscience reminded him that's how Pete said when he hurled his own angry words at him. But he wasn’t being selfish…was he? He’s got a crazy schedule, a high stress job, after all. He expected Pete to understand that. They’ve been dating for the last five years, since Patrick had just a medical student, Pete _knew this_. He _knew_ this was the life of a surgeon, he knew it going in, it wasn’t like Patrick had promised him anything different. But to call him selfish? No…no, he wasn’t…he just needs to let off some steam once in a while—

_“Here he’s saying he cares about you, but you’re trying to justify that behind his back, you’re unfaithful…”_

There’s a silence that settles over them as Patrick fights with the voice in his head… _What if…what if it was right…_

‘ _I’m not justifying! Pete’s being the jerk! He’s calling me a child, an asshole…I didn’t do anything fucking wrong! I have to work, dammit, we have to eat!’_

“Patrick…” Pete starts softly, his voice tingled with regret. “Babe, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

 “I fucking _hate_ you.” Patrick seethes, cutting Pete off completely, his eyes sharp and cold as he stares him down in their kitchen.

Something pulled at his gut painfully as he watched Pete’s face crumble, all emotion draining from his features as even his shoulders sagged lower. Realizing what had slipped from his mouth, Patrick knew there was no turning back from this, no taking back the words that stabbed through Pete’s heart like a knife, words that Patrick _didn’t mean…_ they were just words he knew that would _hurt._

And they did –he could see it by Pete’s expression. The way his lips were set into a grim line, his eyes looking straight at Patrick, the familiar warm liquid hazel brown—like whiskey in a tumbler—hardened into amber.

Patrick had only seen Pete look like that once before—it was when he had come out to his father at dinner two and a half years ago. Pete’s mom had been completely supportive when Pete had come out to her first, knowing she would be understanding. But Mr. Wentz, on the other hand, had not. He simply told Pete and Patrick to leave the room as Mrs. Wentz trying (and failing) to talk sense into her husband. It didn’t work, it had only escalated as Pete's father had stamped into the living room and started screaming at his son, Patrick standing by helpless as Pete’s grip on his hand got tighter and tighter. In the end, Pete's father had screamed, “ _Get out of my house.  You’re no longer my son, do you hear me?!”_ Pete and Patrick had left without a word, and the drive back to their shitty little apartment had been silent, the older boy’s hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. His face had been like stone, expressionless.

Just like now.

Pete only got like this when he was trying not to completely breakdown or totally lose it in front of someone he loved.

Knowing that, Patrick couldn’t bear to look at him, not like this, not when his conscience is taunting him. _“Look at him…you didn’t want to hurt him with your little ‘friend’ but you’re hurting him worse with your own words. Whose the asshole now?”_

He couldn’t stand being in the same room, the tension choking him, so he simply turned without so much as a word, grabbed his keys, and left for work. He didn’t bother packing scrubs and regular clothes for after his shift, he could use the backup clothes and scrubs he had in his locker.

He couldn’t stay.

Not when he knew he had broken Pete’s heart.

~///~

He’s only five hours in his shift, and Patrick’s already losing it. He is curled up in the locker room on his break, knees to his chest and back against the wall of lockers as he stares at the lack of notifications on his phone.

Pete hasn’t called or texted him—usually their fights don’t last longer than a few hours. Patrick called him about an hour ago when he was between patients, but it only rang, the closest thing to a response Patrick had gotten was Pete’s voicemail, to which he gently spoke into after the mandatory beep. “ _Pete…can you call me back, or text me…please?”_ He called again to only be met with ringing and the recorded message, and he let his head bang against the locker, eyes screwing shut. “I fucked up,” he whispered to himself, pulling at his sandy blonde hair a bit.

“Fucked up what?”

He looked to see Elisa come in, her curly hair pulled into a messy bun upon of her head and wearing light blue scrubs under her doctor’s coat. In her hands were a jar of peanut butter and some apples--she'd always had a sweet tooth. She moved easily to straddle the bench in front of him, Patrick in his own matching attire, but with navy scrubs, and offered him a piece of apple.  “Apple slice and peanut butter for your thoughts?” Patrick’s lips quirked a bit as he took the apple slice from the bag and dipped it in the jar of peanut butter Elisa had in her lap.

He and Lisa had been friends since med school, and now, Elisa was the attending Neurosurgeon at Trinity Memorial, and had been his best friend for the last six years. Lisa, above all things, was like his sister and was often his voice of reason when he couldn’t get his head straight, either in his personal life or in the operating room.

“Pete and I got into a fight…” he started solemnly, taking a bite out of the apple.

“Over?”

“I just…I don’t even know, Lisa. He was worried that I’ve been pulling long hours and that I’ve haven’t taken a break, and I guess I just…snapped at him.”

Elisa thought for a moment, licking at the peanut butter. “Did you apologize? Or at least try to? I mean, you two get into your arguments, but they never last long. You two got short tempers, but you’re both pretty quick to see your faults.”

Patrick reached for another apple as he continued. “I tried to, but he’s not answering his phone…I asked him to text me, but he hasn’t…” There’s a weight in his chest that’s making it hard for him to function, to breathe, and he needs to tell _someone_ before it crushes him. “There’s something else…”

Elisa is quiet, waiting for him to continue. He’s mentally preparing for the backlash, waiting for a slap to the face, the screaming when he speaks. “Rhodes kissed me.” He feels Elisa go rigid beside him.

“You _what?_ ’

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, letting his head thud against the metal of the locker behind him. “Rhodes kissed me.”

“Rhodes?” Elisa starts, turning to him, disbelief and confusion written on her face. “The Plastics temp from Northwestern?” Patrick only nods, slowly. “Patrick!” she scolds, clearly upset as she brings her leg over to fully face the avoidant trauma surgeon.

“I know! I know…” he says, trying not to flinch away from the woman’s glare.

“ _What’s. Going. On_.” She demands through her teeth, eyes unfaltering.

Patrick could only swallow as he sighed, upset at himself for letting things get to this point. “Rhodes flirted, and, I guess…I flirted back, and we’d go get lunch, get coffee…and then…it just…happened.” In his mind, replays of the events played like a record, Rhodes pushing him gently along the rows of lockers, his lips against Patrick’s, and Patrick…Patrick didn’t stop him, didn’t tell him ‘no’, only stayed stock still when Rhode’s lips moved against his.

He feels dirty thinking about it now, about how _wrong_ it felt.

“Goddammit, Patrick,” Elisa huffed, sitting down next to him and falling back against the locker, taking another bite of an apple slice. “Does Pete know?”

Patrick mumbled a soft “No” as his fingers dance anxiously across the cover of his phone.

“I’m going to assume this has been going on since he started working here, so… about a month and a half now, maybe two…?” Another silent nod. Elisa blows out another breath, “Do you have feelings for Rhodes?”

“Would you hate me if I said I didn’t…”

“Then why are you—?”

“That’s the thing, he kissed _me_ …I didn’t kiss back,” Patrick starts, “Rhodes texted me, wanting me to come over to his place after my shift…and I was about to say no. But that’s when Pete came in and asked me if I was okay…then it got bad. I snapped at him.”

“So you got defensive?”

“I guess…I just…I didn’t know why?”

“It’s because you’re afraid about getting caught,” Elisa explained easily. “You’ve got this thing going on, which is odd, even for you, but you’re tasting something you didn’t exactly oppose to.…Do you want more?”

“I…” Patrick hesitates as he thinks. What’s going on between him and Rhodes, it’s just fun flirting, but flirting that’s gone too far, and Patrick’s not sure if he wants to play this game despite how tempting it is. The thing above it all is that Pete doesn’t _deserve_ any of this. Pete doesn’t make him _unhappy_ , Pete’s never cheated, and has always been nothing but supportive of Patrick, listening to him after a tough day at work, holding him tightly on the days when there was the one Patrick _couldn’t save._ Pete’s the best thing to ever happen to him, and yet…

“Look Patrick, you’re my friend,” the dark haired woman began gently, “And I can’t tell you how to live your life, but what you’re doing isn’t fair to either of them. If you want to do this thing with Rhodes, then go for it, but don’t drag Pete along and make him suffer just for a cheap thrill. If you want to be with Pete, you need to end this with Rhodes, like, _now_.” Patrick stayed silent, let the words ricochet in his mind, processing them.

“Do you feel guilty about it?” asks Elisa, looking over at Patrick, “About the kiss.”

Patrick nods, his eyes staring at the wall in front of them. “I feel dirty, if that’s even possible…I should’ve said no, but I didn’t.”

“We’ll you gotta figure this out soon, like before the end of your break,” Elisa says, screwing the cap on her peanut butter jar. “Honestly, Pete’s good for you, and I’m not just saying that because I set the two of you up,” she winks, standing up. “But I don’t think you would be so conflicted if you didn’t love him like you do. You need to tell him, and apologize, and take some time off to prove it. ‘Cause if you stay stuck in the hospital any longer, I’m admitting your butt to the psych unit for an eval.”

Patrick chuckles and shakes his head at that, standing up and dusting off his scrubs and coat. “Thanks, Lisa,” he says softly, his eyes warm. The dark-haired doctor smiles, pulling him in for a hug.

“Tell him. And take some time off.”

“I will.”

They pull away and Elisa says something about grabbing more munchies from one of the new residents before giving him one last look and leaving the locker room.

Patrick pulls out his phone and looks at the text Rhodes had sent him hours ago before typing out his own reply, this time confident in his words.

_“I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t do this to my boyfriend. I hope you understand.”_

He gets a text from Rhodes a couple minutes later. _“It’s okay. No worries, Patrick. See you around. Just punch me in the dick if I try to kiss you again.”_

Patrick smiles and he feels like a weight has been lifted from his chest, like he could breathe again. Now all that’s left is to make things right with Pete, to apologize, to let him know…

He quickly dials Pete’s number, and is a little disheartened when it goes to voicemail after four rings.

_“Hey, this is Pete, leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you soon, unless you've got pizza then text me.”_

He takes in a deep breath before speaking into his phone. “Hey, Pete, it’s me…I just…I’m sorry for what I said at home. I don’t hate you, I never have, and I’m pretty sure I never will. I know you were just looking out for me, and you didn’t deserve any of what I said.” He smiles sadly, “You were right, I am the selfish one, and…and I’m going to change that. I’m so proud of you Pete, for the books you’ve published and all your writings, and never giving up on that…and us... I love you so much. So, so much Pete, and I swear when I get home we’ll talk about it and I'm gonna to take time off and we're going to go somewhere, okay? I’ll see you soon, love you.” Patrick ends the call and looks down at his phone, Pete’s contact picture displaying proudly on his phone. He smiles as his thumb caresses the forever captured image of Pete grinning, his smile bright as he looks into the camera, whiskey eyes warm and soft.

Feeling lighter than he had in months, Patrick pockets his phone, and straightens himself up before ending his break and returning back to the chaos that was Trinity Memorial Hospital, mind already flitting around possible destinations for their getaway. _Pete always wanted to go to Boston...or maybe somewhere tropical? St. Bart's? He look so good in swim trunks…_

Not even 5 minutes into returning from his break, Patrick’s beeper goes off. He reaches for it in the waist band of his scrubs and reads it, his heart starting to race with a familiar adrenaline.

_“ TRAUMA ALERT:  Level I, Adult Male – 33. E812  
ETA 5 mins.” _

Patrick starts jogging his way over to the ER receiving entrance, putting on a pair of sterile gloves from a box in the hallway. Pushing through the double doors, he sees a group of waiting doctors and nurses, members of the trauma unit ready and prepared for the worst.

“We got an E812,” says Dr. Andy Hurley solemnly, one of the Attending General Surgeons, as he stands with arms crossed, a surgeons cap already placed neatly on his head.

“Yeah, car collision,” Patrick says, shrugging off his own coat and accepting the cap from one of the nurses, tying it cleanly on his own head. “I just got the page for one, which is a good thing, I guess.” It wasn‘t uncommon in calls such as these to have more than one injured, when that happens, it’s a cut in man power and a game of juggling casualties, something Patrick hates doing.

As Andy nods, Patrick’s begins to bark out orders. “Okay, I’m going to need CT and X-rays on stand by and someone better page Plastics already to be on standby.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Chief of Trauma poke their head into the ambulance bay.

“Party in here?” Dr. Armstrong was known for having a macabre sense of humor in stressful situations--it's what made him the best. Patrick only nodded wryly.

"You know it.”

Andy was listening to the garbled description coming in over the radio from the nurses’ station

. When the transmission had finished, he turned to the group. “Patient has multiple fractures on left side, internal bleeding, difficulty breathing, so we’re going to need to clear his air ways, and we’re going to need as much B positive blood bags as we can get. Time of accident was said to be approximately 20 mins ago, by- standers were able to stabilize, but he’s pretty bad shape.” 

As he finishes, Patrick's pager goes off again. “Okay, folks, show time! They’re just about to pull in.”

The rest was a blur— nurses calling out for instruments, more gauze, and saline, while Andy, Patrick and Dr. Armstrong stand clear as the ambulance pulls in, the back doors of the ambulance opening and revealing their patient. Patrick sees the familiar face of one of the EMTs, Joe Trohman, who happens to be an acquaintance of both him and Pete, but there’s something different in his eyes as he looks over his way. Fear, worry…

Something inside Patrick’s gut twists painfully at his expression. Joe, along with two other men hop down and maneuver the gurney out everything becomes complete and utter chaos. There’s no time for thinking, just time to _do_ , to save someone’s life. It’s supposed to be routine for Patrick, something he does on a daily basis…

But this feels different. This call…

This call _feels wrong_. And Patrick can’t understand _why_.

“33 year old Male, T-boned at an intersection,” one of the EMTs shouts, the doctors rushing over to the gurney. Patrick is cut off from them by a nurse running through with an oxygen tank. “Blood pressure is dropping, heart rate is dropping. Chest and possible spinal fractures.” Patrick doesn’t look at the patient, only moves to push the doors to the Emergency room open, before Dr. Armstrong grabs him by the arm and pulls him away.

“What the hell?” Patrick starts, his eyes following the gurney.

“Patrick, stop!” Armstrong says grimly, looking Patrick straight in the eyes. "You can't...it's a conflict of interest.”

“Conflict of interest?” Puzzled, Patrick turns back to where the doctors and the nurses begin to work on the patient, trying to understand what the _hell_ he meant…

Until he saw it and his whole body went cold, numb, the wind getting kicked out of his chest as he caught sight of the patient’s tattooed arm as they transferred him from the gurney to a bed.

_No…No it couldn’t be…_

One of the nurses moved out of the way as Patrick broke free and rushed over to see his face and chest, familiar tan skin with the necklace of thorns that Patrick knew all too well from nights of tracing the ink with his fingertips…the messy black hair..

Oh, God… _Pete…_

 Patrick’s instincts kicked into overdrive, the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he made a move to rush over into the room and take charge as he usually did in trauma cases like this, but more so because this was _Pete._

But an arm catches him again, and he fights against it, until another person grabs hold of him, stropping him. Patrick spins around, facing the Chief of Surgery, Dr. Cindi Lauper-- his _boss,_ as his heart pounded in his ears. “You have to let me help! This is my fucking _job_!”

“No, you’re staying out of that room, do you hear me!? I don’t need you in there letting your emotions get the best of you.” She said with an air of finality as Patrick's head jerked as frantic calls and orders were being shouted out, the overlapping chatter of the nurses, doctors, and specialists nearly drowning out the beeping of the heart monitor.

“You _need_ me in there!” he shouts, attempting to turn around and join the trauma unit, but Joe takes him from Dr. Lauper with a grim look and puts his arm around his shoulders, stopping him. Frustrated, his eyes catching glimpse of Pete on the gurney, Patrick growls out. “ _Let me go!”_

Dr. Armstrong looks up from the gurney and comes over, putting his hands on Patrick's shoulders after a quick look up at Joe. “What I need right now in that room, and in the OR is _Dr. Stump, Attending Trauma Surgeon_ , not the patient’s long- time boyfriend!” The Chief says, stopping Patrick in his tracks. “I want you to help, more than anything, you’re one of the best, but I can’t have you in there making decisions as a boyfriend. You’re already biased to the situation as is, I can’t have you compromised when his life is on the line.” 

Patrick was trembling, ready to sock his department head in the mouth and rush over there and start working. But then another alarm in the room went off, and Dr. Armstrong ran back as Patrick automatically began reading all the machines and gauges, his mind whirling at lighting pace, adrenaline making his fingers twitch.

“He’s hypotensive…going into tachycardia…Oh god, he’s got a bleed in his chest,” Patrick beings to diagnose under his breath, Joe still holding him back. Andy looks over and gives him a look as he brings his surgical mask up over his mouth and nose, his eyes filled with worry and fear…just like Joe’s. “They need the infuser with two units of blood and someone need to start the trauma panel, _now_. You need to get X-rays—”

“Patrick,” Joe cuts him off, his voice low. “ _Patrick_ , you need to let them do their jobs. You know them, Pete is in the best of hands.” Patrick doesn’t pay him any attention as he breaks free and follows the portable x-ray being carted in.

“Airways are blocked!—Someone page the OR!— We need a room, _now_!” Andy’s normally even voice sounds harried--or maybe that was just the panic flooding through Patrick's veins.

“Patrick, come on, man,” Joe urges gently, his arms winding around Patrick’s waist and pulling him back. Suddenly, Patrick can't think, he can’t move his legs, he can’t look away from the room, from the blood on the floor that is _Pete’s blood_ , the plastic tube taped to his mouth leading straight down his trachea, the monitors hooked up to his chest…

“Patrick…” he turns at the sound of his name and sees Elisa standing there, a hand on his shoulder. _She knows, oh god, this…this can’t be real…_

“He’s got a punctured lung, and four broken ribs,” someone in the room calls out frantically.

 _‘I have to get in there…I have too…he needs me...’_ Patrick’s mind races.

“His heart rate’s dropping, he’s crashing!”

Suddenly, they’re rushing the gurney out of the room and toward the elevator, with someone shouting “OR 2”. Patrick bolts to the designated OR, Elisa hot on his trail.  Dr. Lauper shouting something their direction, but it’s lost in the roaring pulse in his ears make their way over to the designated theater, the only thing on his mind is _Pete_. Pete connected to machines keeping him breathing, keeping him alive, the tube taped to his mouth, the scratches, the blood, the gashes on his side, his chest…

By time they get up to the high-level seating, Patrick immediately goes to stand the by the window of the viewing room, looking down into the OR to see that Pete’s already being prepped for surgery to mend his pierced lung and to stop any internal bleeding.

“I should be scrubbing in,” he whispers, his hand on the glass as he finally takes in the full extent of the physical damage Pete had taken during the crash. His neck is still secured in brace, there are gashes along his sides and cuts on his left arm from the shattered glass of the impact. There are bruises forming all over tan skin, but the most prominent are the ones by his ribs and the slowing blooming outline of the safety belt he was wearing across his chest.

“There’s nothing you can do Patrick,” Elisa says calmly, standing beside him, looking down into the theater.

“I should be down there,” he breathes shakily attempting to reason to himself, trying his hardest not to break and run down there, scrub in, and take charge.

When the surgery starts, he makes eye contact with both Andy and Armstrong as they come into the OR in their surgical gowns.  Seeing them, it hits him, his world shattering underneath his feet. Patrick prides himself at keeping it together whether in or out of the OR, he knows there’s a time and a place to let go, to let the stress of the way wash over him, and when to file it away. But Patrick can’t keep it up any longer, not when Pete’s down there, on the operating table.

He caves and sinks down onto the floor, hidden by why the wall underneath the window, unable to bear the sight of the scalpel against Pete’s chest, opening him open. He knows what they have to do, he know they gave to locate the bleed and stop it, wherever it may be. Patrick knows, with dread gripping his stomach in a vice hold, that they’re going to have to cut Pete open, and Patrick above all knows that Pete could very well bleed to death on the table.

His entire body is going numb as his struggles for oxygen, gasping for breath, Elisa sliding right next to him, wrapping her arms around him, bringing Patrick close to her chest. He’s panicking, _oh God, what…what if Pete bleeds out…what if—_

“It’s okay, Patrick,” Elisa tries to calms, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes as he gasps for breath, clutching onto her coat as if his life depended on it. “He’s going to be okay…Pete’s going to be okay…”

He tries to listen to what she’s saying, words that were meant to calm him, but he can’t focus. All he can think about his Pete on that gurney, the blood, Pete unresponsive, Pete about to be opened up under the harsh medical lights in an attempt to _save_ his life.…

As the surgery starts without him looking on, he hears Armstrong’s voice filter from the speakers of the viewing room, speakers that were usually used to listen into procedures and doctors’ commentary. But this wasn’t commentary, not from the sound of it.

“Guys, treat this as the most important case you’ll ever have,” he starts, his voice oddly calm. “If anything, just know that Dr. Stump is watching, and we need to do anything and everything we can to make sure the patient lives.”

His eyes fall shut, tears running down his cheek as Andy calls for reads of Pete’s blood-pressure and heart rate, and then calls for a scalpel. Elisa rocking him on the floor of the viewing room behind the wall separating them from the view surgical team below.  

All Patrick could do was listen and wait.

_~///~_

_Beep…Beep…Beep_

The heart monitor and the mechanical sound of oxygen being pumped into his lungs were the only sounds in the private room, the sights and sounds of the hospital just beyond the door. And Patrick…Patrick feels like he’s frozen in time, the only thing keeping him anchored to reality were the beeping of the heart monitor and the humming of the respirator, and his own iron grip of Pete’s lukewarm hand.

Pete hasn’t woken up yet.

Surgery had gone well by any surgeon’s standards. Throughout the entire operation, Patrick had been listening to his co-workers, his _friends_ work to reverse the damage done by blunt force trauma from the accident.

The bleeding in his chest, which was located around his heart and lungs had been contained, and the punctured lung had been repaired, but in the process, Pete had gone into cardiac arrest twice, Patrick's heart stopping along with his. They were able to stabilize him and his heart easily both times, but the stress of the accident and the surgery...there was no telling how much his heart was willing to take.

CT scans taken after the surgery had shown that while they had successfully stopped all the bleeding, there were concerns over his spinal disk that were in need for further evaluation and testing, his left arm and collar bone, along with his pelvis were going to need to be braced and repaired ...but Pete's body had to recover some before they could continue on.

More importantly, Pete had to breathe on his own first.

It’s been three hours since his surgery, and the anesthesia should have worn off by now, enabling Pete’s lungs to work on their own, delivering the oxygen his body needed, but whenever they started to ween him off the ventilator, decreasing the amount of oxygen, his vitals would begin to drop when his body should have compensated. But it didn’t, not completely—Pete’s airways still too weak.

Patrick felt helpless as he watched on, barking out orders as soon at the alarms went off.

_“No! Turn the O2 levels back up…”_

_“Dr. Stump –“_

_“Just do it!”_

The fresh-faced intern looked more frighten than anything as she did just that. He didn’t mean to yell at her, Patrick really didn’t, but he couldn’t think straight with Pete lying motionless in the hospital bed, hooked up machines. Armstrong was right…he can’t focus, all he can think about right now that Pete’s _fighting for his life_.

“They’re going to put you on Nitric Oxide to help you breathe better,” Patrick explains softly to Pete’s still body as he sits on the bed, Pete’s hand held firmly between both of his on his lap, mindful of the tubes and monitors hooked up and artfully woven around his arm. He’s still in his scrubs, but Dr. Lauper agreed to relieve him of his duties, seeing that the situation could affect him on the floor. He didn’t fight being taken off of rotations, letting the other attending surgeon from the Trauma team, his good friend Dr. Frank Iero, take over his charts.

Pete’s mom was called as soon as Pete had gotten out of surgery. She was on her way, Mr. Wentz also in tow to see their son, despite he and Pete’s strained relationship.

After another moment, Patrick’s chest feeling heavy with dread, he reaches over and tenderly he brushes some of Pete’s hair away from his forehead, letting his hand fall to his cheek, his thumb running gently across his cheekbones, feeling stubble and the medical tape used to keep the intubation attached to the ventilator in place.

“It’ll help strengthen your lungs, but it will turn on you if…” Patrick bites his lip, trying to will away the tears that are starting to build up. “If…if your lungs don’t start working on their own.” This voice cracks on the last part, trying not to envision the worst. He’s supposed to be used to situations like this, he’s used to explaining the inevitable, the cold reality to patients and their families. Patrick’s used to keeping it together.

Patrick’s struggling, trying so hard to keep it together… _so fucking hard._

He looks up at the respiration monitor, the pink numbers on display not where they’re supposed to be. “You got to get your level down to four,” and almost, _almost_ , as if Pete hard heard him, his twelve drops down to an ten, but then turns to an eleven. There’s a spark of hope that ignites in Patrick’s chest at he slight change in numbers –it’s a sign that his lungs are trying to breathe. Pete’s trying to _fight._

Patrick looks back at him, his eyes shut, eye-lashes against his cheeks. _God, he looks like he’s sleeping_ , Patrick thinks to himself, his hand still on his cheek, his other hand grasping Pete’s like a lifeline. Patrick gives him a soft, watery smile. “You can do this,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “I know you can,” and Patrick’s not sure if in that moment she’s trying to encourage Pete or is simply attempting to reassure himself, to drown the worry and doubt that’s nagging at his gut, trying to ignore his own medical training, his own form of logic that prepares him for the worst.

He can’t think that now… _he can’t._

“You gotta wake up soon,” Patrick says, running his fingers through Pete’s hair, like he does when he’s trying to bring Pete back to the world of the waking. He’s expecting Pete’s eyes to flutter open, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he focus zeros in on the blonde. Patrick’s expecting Pete to grin up at him with that stupidly big smile of his, to reach up and caress his cheek and say something cheesy, melting into Patrick’s fingertips on his scalp.

But he doesn’t. Pete’s not waking up to the feel of his fingers rubbing gentle circles on his head, his chest moving mechanically due to the ventilator, and his eyes…his eyes aren’t opening, revealing warm whiskey colored eyes.

“There’s so much I want to tell you,” Patrick breathes, tears laced in his voice. “But, I need for you to get better so I can tell you…You need to wake up, Pete, _please_.” The last part comes out desperately in the empty silence of the room.

Patrick’s hoping for some kind of answer, some kind of sign that Pete could hear him. But all he gets is the deafening sound of the ventilator breathing for Pete, and the beeping of the heart monitor.

_Beep…Beep…Beep_

_~///~_

A day later, Armstrong and Dr. Lauper come in, and Patrick’s heart _drops_.

Patrick knows this routine, he’s done it many times before, and every time feels like a personal failure, but this time, he and Pete’s parents are on the other side of the conversation. Patrick’s silent as they speak, keeping vigil at Pete’s side.

“The stress of the accident and of the surgery were too much…” ‘ _No, don’t say that, please_ ,’ Patrick silently begs. “That being said, we’re not sure if his heart is going to be able to handle another operation” ‘ _Pete’s heart’s so strong, don’t you understand that? I know it is…he can’t make it…_ ’ “While we were able to stabilize the bleeding in his chest, his lungs are not strong enough to breathe on their own,” ‘ _There has to be a way, give more N.O., try giving him steroids.’_ “We’re so sorry, but there’s nothing more we can do at this point.”

Patrick’s heart shatters like crystal, shards scattering across the floor.

“We can keep him on life support…” Dr. Armstrong offers, but is quickly cut off by Mrs. Wentz

“He has an amended DNR,” his mother supplies, tears in her eyes as she turns to look over at Patrick, his gaze solely on Pete. _He looks like he’s still sleeping…just give him time to wake up…please._ “Patrick,” she calls out, her voice cracking. “He still has it in place, doesn’t he?”

Patrick absently nods. It had been a discussion they had when they first started dating over pizza and beer in Pete’s rundown apartment.

_“You’re an intern,” Pete had started, his third beer in his hand. “How do you feel about DRNs?”_

_“DRNs?” Patrick has giggled, a happy at the slight buzz he had going on after finishing his own third, munching on cold pizza. “I think you mean, DNR. ‘Do Not_ _Resuscitate’.”_

_“Yeah, those. What’s your opinion on them, Dr. Intern,” Pete had grin, his body laxed as they sat on the floor of Pete’s small living room._

_Patrick hummed in thought, and at the sight of Pete’s body stretched out on display. “I don’t think my opinion really matters. DNR’s are a person’s personal preference, it’s how you can have a say in your life when you can’t completely make it…Does that make sense?”_

_Pete nods, taking another swig of his beer. “I have one,” he says casually, as if talking about the weather._

_“You do?” he asks, looking over at the older man with interest, his knees to his chest._

_“Yeah, ever since I was 18, I signed a DNR,” he shrugs. “Well, not really DNR, but more like an anti-life support form. My folks weren’t too happy about it when I didn’t, but I’ve got this archaic belief that if my time’s up, my time’s up. I mean, yeah, do whatever you need to, like restart my heart or some crazy shit like that, but if there’s no point, just let me go.”_

_The sandy blonde haired intern looks over at him with blue-hazel eyes, thoughtful. “Wow, that’s pretty mature decision for an 18 year old Pete Wentz…”_

_Pete laughs. “I’m not afraid of death, hell, Death loves us all…I just like breaking it’s heart, but when the time comes and it calls me, I’d rather not prolong it with life support or any shit like that. I’ll go willingly…”_

“Life support was the last thing he ever wanted,” Patrick supplies numbly. His ventilation treatment to get his lungs stronger was about to be up. When the Nitric Oxide was done, the ventilation from then on would no longer be qualified as ‘life saving treatment’ but would be deemed ‘life-support’.

The rest of what Armstrong and Dr. Lauper saw fall his deaf ears, Patrick lost in the though of ‘ _No…no this can’t be real. Pete…Pete can’t be…’_

When they leave, Mrs. Wentz finally breaks down, falling into her husband’s arms before crying into her son’s chest, Pete’s father is sitting in the corner with his face in his hands.

And Patrick…Patrick looks on brokenly.

 _This can’t be real…it can’t_ …

_~///~_

It’s decided by Pete’s mom that Patrick should be the one to stay with Pete, if he wanted to.

“Sweetie…you don’t have to..”

“No, I want to,” he says softly. “I don’t want him to be alone.” His voice cracks with emotion that he’s trying to hide behind a blank mask, but Pete’s mom can see right through him and hugs him tightly.

When they leave, it’s just the two of them alone in the room. Armstrong was going to come and turn off the machines, but when it was time.

“Wake up,” Patrick whispers, grasping Pete’s hand for dear life. “God damnit, _Wake up!”_ he hisses, tears leaking from his eyes. There’s no response, only the beeping of the heart monitor.

Letting out a shaky breath, he climbs into the hospital bed, too small for the both of them, but he makes it work, as he carefully maneuvers himself and Pete so that Pete’s head is resting the junction of his neck and shoulder, an arm under his shoulder, and the other cradling his face.

“I don’t hate you,” he sobs out, his face buried into Pete’s hair. “Please _, please_ believe me… _I’m so sorry_ , I don’t hate you, Pete.” It was hours after the initial shock of the events that transpired, that Patrick realized that Pete might not have heard his voicemail, a lead weight of guilt sitting in the pit of his stomach. But now...now might be the only time he’ll get to say them, even though Patrick knows that there’s the possibility of Pete not _hearing_ them. “I didn’t mean what I said, I didn’t mean it,” he grasps out, his tears making Pete’s hair damp. “I’m so proud of you, and I’m so happy you get to do what you love, but…but _please don’t do this to me….please…”_ He sounds desperate, he knows he does, but Patrick doesn’t know what else to do, not when Pete’s going to be taken away from him. “I’ll take vacation, I promise, we’ll go to Boston, Jamaica, St. Barts…anywhere you want, but _please don’t…”_ Patrick sobs, muffled by Pete’s hair, finally breaking down under the stress and reality of it all. “I love you…I love you…”

But Pete’s not waking up.

_~///~_

Armstrong comes into the room half an hour later, a grim look on his face as he enters. Patrick’s still in Pete’s bed, holding him close, rocking him gently in the bed, singing something under his breath, running his thumb along his cheek lovingly.

“Patrick…it’s time.” Armstrong says as gently as he could. Patrick stops his singing and leans down to kiss Pete’s forehead, his lips lingering on his skin as he nods his head. Armstrong looks on, sadness in his eyes as Patrick resumes rocking and the quiet singing, but his lips not once leaving Pete’s forehead.

Patrick’s breathe hitches when he hears the ventilator shut off, but continues to hold Pete tight , kissing his forehead as the heart monitor continues to beep. It’s only a matter of time, but Patrick doesn’t want to let go.

“I love you, so much Pete. I love you,” he whispers with such earthshattering love and heartache, a new set of tears falling from his eyes.

Minutes later, Patrick would hold Pete, sobbing into his hair, kissing him once more as the heart monitor flat-lined…

Patrick knew he was gone.

~///~

_‘Baby…wake up’_

Patrick opens his eyes groggily, his pillow wet with tears, his throat sore and face aching from another right of crying himself to sleep. It’s been two weeks since Pete…Pete died…

 _I swear I can still hear him_ , he thinks sadly, reaching over to grasp Pete’s pillow, bringing to himself, curling around it, trying to feel any remainder of him in the bed, the room, in his clothes, in his things…anywhere…

Things have been tough, Patrick’s not going to lie. He’s had his fair share of sobbing himself to sleep, feeling numb, and just lying in the bed in one of Pete’s stupid hoodies, staring at the wall. It hasn’t been the same, and Patrick know it never will be.

He’s on leave from the hospital, for bereavement and personal time off, Armstrong and Lauper pulling strings with the board in order to give him time to heal. Elisa comes visits him, holds him as he cries, stays with him when he’s piss-ass drunk…she’s one of his rocks when he’s shut the rest of the world, including his and Pete’s mom, out. Andy visits too, and so does Armstrong. But there’s only so much that he could handle…there’s only so much ‘I’m sorry’s he could bear to hear.

_“I know you’re fucking sorry, but that’s not going to bring him back!...He’s dead…”_

Bowie, their dog, cries from the foot of the bed. “I’m coming, boy.” He says weakly, looking over to see the heterochromia husky look sadly over his way. If anything, Bowie has been the only thing keeping Patrick going –Bowie was Pete’s baby, found behind a dumpster as a puppy. Pete literally had to beg Patrick to keep the puppy, who they both thought was brown, but was pleasantly surprised when after a good bath, the husky was as white as the first snow fall in Chicago. Patrick caved eventually, falling for Bowie and being the one to spoil the husky rotten. Bowie has long grew past the puppy stage, but was still as loveable as ever.

When Pete died, Bowie must have sensed it, because when Patrick came home, Bowie slowly approached him with is ears flatten to his head, eyes filled with sorry. Patrick had broken down at the sight of the husky, sliding down to the ground with a sob. Bowie knew, he had to have known. The husky moved to Patrick, whining softly in the back of his throat as he climbed into Patrick lap, something Patrick would have joked that he couldn’t do because he ‘wasn’t exactly a puppy anymore’, and tucked his head under Patrick’s chin as Patrick cried and sobbed into his white fur.

Yeah, Bowie kept him up, made him get out of bed, or had a habit of joining him in it.

There’s another curious noise that comes from Bowie, this time, coming over to Patrick line of vision and resting his head on the mattress, looking at him with his beautiful multicolored eyes, ears twitching.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Patrick sighs, sitting up in bed, but to Bowie’s delight.

After feeding Bowie and making his own cup of coffee, Patrick eyes the plastic bag that Eliza had dropped off yesterday from the hospital. In it, where all of Pete’s belonging, his wallet, his phone, his keys… He couldn’t look at them right now, not when everything was still so fresh in his mind.

Patrick grabbed the bag and made his way over to Pete’s study, a room he tried to avoid, but found himself spending much of his time in. Bowie followed dutifully, as if to be his personal emotional support.

When he arrived at the door, his heart races as he places his hand on the knob, Bowie patiently waiting beside him. When he does turn the door, he’s greeted by a familiar room surrounded by too many memories, many of those making him smile, but each feeling like a stab in the heart. Every memory tainted by the back that Pete possibly died thinking Patrick hated him, that he never got to hear his voice massage, that he was too late…

It’s a guilt that has fueled many of Patrick’s drunken night, sitting in the living room or in Pete’s study with a bottle of burning whiskey the color of Pete’s eyes.

Patrick’s not sure if he’ll ever get over that, but knows that he has to _live_ with it.

He moves over to Pete’s desk and opens the side drawer, and is about to place the bag in there when something catches his attention: a folded piece of paper, with Patrick’s name on it…

And a black velvet box.

Placing the plastic bag on the desk, Patrick sits in Pete’s chair, pulling the folded paper from its hiding place. With shaking hands, Patrick tries his best to carefully unfold it, as if it would crumble between his fingertips. He smiles softy at Pete’s familiar handwriting, atrocious as always, as he glances at it, but his eyes widen when he catches sight of the date…it was written the day they fought…they day Pete got into his car accident.

_Patrick,_

_I know you probably feel really guilty about the fight this morning, I do too. There are jab that were thrown on both of are parts that should have never been thrown. But I know you didn’t mean them, like I didn’t mean any of what I said. I know you don’t hate me, I could see it in your eyes after the words fell from those perfect lips that I love to kiss to so much. Worry, sadness. Regret…I saw it...Eyes are windows into the soul, Pattycakes, and yours are no exception – yours are stained-glass letting the light flitter in in brilliant rays of colors and emotions – that’s why I love your eyes so much, they hold nothing but truth, and I know you didn’t mean it. I forgive you, I do._

_I worry about you, a lot. I worry that you’ll overwork yourself, that you’ll lose yourself in the chaos that is the emergency room. You love your job, and for that, I love you even more. I just want you to be safe, to not the stress and worries of your job effect you deeply._

_More than anything in this world, I want you happy._

_You once told me that my happiness led to yours, well, that stands true in reverse, my love. I live to see you happy, I live to hear you talk about work, hear you sing, to see you smile. I live to be your boyfriend, to be the one person that makes your eyes glimmer like gemstones, to see you shine brighter than any star in the universe._

_I live to one day be your husband._

_That’s what the ring’s for. I know we’re not ones to wear jewelry, but I wanted you to have something, a reminder of my love for you. I was going to wait until our anniversary in a few month, but the time seems right._

_A ring in a circle, forever never-ending. That’s my love you. Forever and never-ending, no matter what happens._

_I love you, Patrick._

_Pete_

Patrick’s trembling, tears cascading down his cheeks when he thought he had none left.

Pete… _Pete knew_.

Patrick reached into the drawer, and with trembling hands, picks up the velvet box, feeling as if Pete was right in the room with him, as if he was wrapping his arms around his waist , smiling into his neck, breathing _‘Open it’_.

It’s simple and silver, but there’s an engraving in it. Patrick has a watery smile as he shakes his head, so fucking typical of Pete to go the extra mile some way or another. ‘ _Forever and never-ending’_ is engraved on the inside of the band.

He slips it onto his finger, and it fits like a glove. Perfectly.

Patrick looks down at the ring as another wave of tears follow, but this time, he’s not only grieving, he’s relieved, Relieved that Pete knew that Patrick loved him, that he didn’t believe the words he had said to him that morning.

Pete knew Patrick loved him.

Patrick brings the letter to his chest, folding it neatly before kissing it, holding it close, his last inkling of Pete, along with the ring on his finger.

Things were never going to be the same, Patrick understood that, but at least now, he was sure that Pete knew the truth, knew that Patrick had loved him more than anything in this world.

He looks around the office, memories scattered in various places and spaces, but the one he truly treasured was safely folded in his hand and snug on his finger. “I love you, too,” he says into the room.

And for a brief moment, Patrick swears he feels Pete kiss his shoulder.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry...I really really am...
> 
> As [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade) would say, this fic grab me by the figurative balls and wouldn't let go. It was tough for me to figure out a good ending, and I have a lot of ideas to choose from, but this felt right even though it hurt so much, and cried more than a few time.
> 
> As always, feedback, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, ( or if you want to yell at me, that's fine too). If you have any suggestions or prompts feel free to leave them here or on my [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you, dearies, for reading.


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